


Trumpets Sound, Walls Tumble Down

by perdiccas



Category: Heroes (TV), Jericho (US 2006)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Community: xover_exchange, Crossover, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Non-Graphic Violence, Post-Series, Road Trip
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-07
Updated: 2009-12-07
Packaged: 2017-10-04 05:55:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,310
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26771
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/perdiccas/pseuds/perdiccas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On the brink of the Second American Civil War, Jake and Hawkins try to make their way home to Jericho. Along the way, they meet a kid looking for a ride.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Trumpets Sound, Walls Tumble Down

**Author's Note:**

  * For [vanillafluffy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/vanillafluffy/gifts).



> Written for vanillafluffy for xover_exchange. My thanks to my inimitable beta, aurilly.

Fall turns to winter, Christmas passes and the New Year comes, and, as the days grow warmer, it gets harder to remember life before the bombs. New Jersey is still standing, or so Luke's heard, but with a dozen fallout zones between here and there, it may as well be gone. He treks south with the weather, in cars when he can jack them and on foot when he can't; even the apocalypse won't send him crawling back to his mom. He wonders sometimes if Sylar survived or if maybe Sylar's behind it all, but mostly, he tries not to think, because in this B-movie disaster the world is going through, Luke doesn't care who started it, only that he survives.

He's in Missouri when Tomarchio declares himself president, and in Oklahoma when the USA becomes the Allied States of America. He's a day's drive from the Independent Republic of Texas when everything goes to shit a second time around.

Jennings and Rall control the news this side of the border: two jets are shot down over Colorado in what the radio calls an 'intolerable act of Texan aggression.' But people rely on word of mouth now, not CNN, and the rumour coming out of San Antonio is that Governor Todd has evidence J &amp; R set the bombs. Riots break out across the state, even as Cheyenne denies it all, and while the world waits in limbo for the civil war that's bound to come, no one looks too closely at the string of blistered corpses Luke leaves in his wake. Days of diplomacy become weeks of negotiation, accusation and propaganda; neither side wants to be the first to shoot. Luke stalls in Chattanooga, unsure what to do, and squatting in a looted house, life settles into a weird kind of normal.

There's a gas station on the outskirts of town where people go to trade. Luke spends his time loitering on the porch, listening to the locals gossip. For the first time in what seems like a lifetime, he remembers how suburbia feels. The convenience store next door is running low on supplies. International aid has dwindled, air drops coming further and fewer between. Prices skyrocket while people stockpile what they can, and there's a panic thrumming through the town. The truth is that Jennings and Rall may be the enemy now, but they've kept the country going. As their offices roll back, solely, to Wyoming and the confirmed allied states, no one is sure how neutral Oklahoma (or fightin' Texas) will survive with the supply routes running dry.

Luke doesn't have gas to trade, or the salt or morphine that's the going rate for rice and beans these days. And as long as he's kept moving, that's never been a problem; he's nuked his way to all the Pop Tarts and chocolate milk the Midwest has had to offer. But caught between the Texan border and the ASA troops a day's march away at Fort Sill, Luke can't afford to be flashy when he doesn't know which way to run. So, he buddies up to the Chattanooga natives, lying and claiming that he's looking for his cousins. He says he's sure, _so sure_ they weren't in Tulsa when the bombs went off. The apocalypse may have made America hard and cold and cruel, but no one has the heart to crush the hopes of a kid who says he's all alone.

And when they finally notice that food is going missing from the shelves, Luke joins the lynch mob, helps string up the out of towner who takes the blame. Now, the body is rotting where it hangs, the noose around his neck creaking in the cool spring breeze, and Luke doesn't sweat it that another man died on his behalf because, nowadays, everyone's guilty of something; there isn't any other way to survive.

Luke walks up and down the aisles, making his daily circuit. He doesn't steal every day, but he always shows his face, makes sure to shoot the shit with Old Man Wilson as he sits behind the counter with a shotgun at the ready. AM radio plays throughout the store and Luke isn't the only one who lingers to hear the news. Some days, they pick up San Antonio, static crackling through the speakers while they hold their breaths and strain to hear, but most days, like today, it's the same Emergency Broadcast loop telling them to sit tight and hold on, lying to them that it will be okay.

The far right corner is hidden in a blind spot, the aisles packed tight enough to shield it from Wilson's line of sight, and though there are security cameras overhead, Luke knows they haven't been recording since the EMP. The shelves are barer than usual; with each passing week the shortages are getting worse. Luke palms a lonely candy bar, Russian lettering on the wrapper, and as he slips it nimbly up his sleeve, he peers out the window at the cars parked in the lot. He wonders if the time has come to cut his losses and make a break for wherever else might take him.

An unexpected movement catches his attention; he watches two figures duck and weave among the lines of cars and, as Luke glances at the Wanted poster on the wall, a sudden spark of recognition settles in his belly. He shoves a juice box under his coat and lopes towards the door. Just as the bell tingles and he's about to step outside, Wilson calls, "Hang on a minute, kid."

In his pockets, Luke balls his fists, microwaves already heating on his palms. He turns with a shit-eating grin plastered across his face, and drawls, "Yes, sir?"

"I…" Wilson says gruffly, and then clears his throat and starts again. "You should take this. Ain't many more left to be had."

Luke picks up the pack of gum, real Wrigley's spearmint, not the weird tasting crap that comes in the Korean aid drops. They say that when bombs hit, Wilson went looking for his son, and found him halfway between here and Dallas, radiation poisoning already taken hold.

"I can't afford it." Luke bites his lip and tries to give it back, but Wilson shakes his head.

"No charge."

"Thanks," he says softly, scuffs his feet as he shuffles out the door, the bell chiming as it shuts. They say that Wilson found his son just in time to hold him as he died.

Luke slouches low and makes his way carefully around the building. If he squints, he can just make out the unfamiliar pickup truck tucked behind the gas station restrooms. Adrenaline pumps through his veins, making his footsteps careless, and as he rounds the corner, Luke nearly trips over the men. They're crouching on the ground, siphoning gas out of the Chattanooga mayor's sedan.

Luke recovers first, a reckless grin twitching at his mouth. "Stealing on Old Man Wilson's land is a sure fire way to get shot."

Hawkins' hand is on his gun before Luke can take a breath, but Jake stands, back turned deliberately to the store to hide from prying eyes. He flashes the J &amp; R ID badge that's hanging around his neck.

"Requisitioning," he explains with a charming smile. "Everyone will be reimbursed for their losses."

They're dusty and dirty, dressed in rumpled civilian clothes, and even if their mug shots weren't pasted onto every telephone pole and mailbox between here and Cheyenne, there's no way they'd pass for Jennings and Rall, or even Ravenwood, looking like they do. Luke smirks, fishes the pilfered candy bar from his jacket, and with his chin tipped up defiantly, takes a bite.

"No offense," he says, the chalky Russian chocolate sticking in his teeth. "But I've got one of those IDs, too, and I bet yours is just as fake as mine."

And then their guns are out for real, safeties off and trained directly at Luke's chest. He licks his lips and grins a little wider, taking another bite of the candy before slowly raising his hands.

"That your car?" Luke nods his head at the battered pickup, bewildered silence their only response. With his hands still in the air he walks backwards toward the truck, eyebrows raised when Jake hisses, "_Goddammit_," under his breath. As Luke moves, they have no choice but to follow, slow and steady until Luke leans against the driver's side door.

"Run out of gas?" he asks, twisting to cup a hand against the window and peer into the cab. And when he does, he's slammed, _hard_, against the car, a knee bruising into his kidneys, winded as he's pinned face first to the door.

"Dude," he gasps. "I was just asking…"

But Hawkins cuts him off, the barrel of his gun pressed up and underneath his chin. "Walk away, son. Walk away, and you won't get hurt."

Luke squirms, rolls his shoulders and rolls his eyes, frying Hawkins just enough for the gun to clatter to their feet. He sags as Hawkins stumbles backwards, freezing when he finds Jake hasn't flinched, both hands on his gun.

"Hawkins!" he calls, eyes cutting, for one split second, from Luke to him. "Are you okay?"

It's enough for Luke to get a hand up, palm outstretched in Jake's direction, but still he doesn't falter.

"I'm fine." Hawkins brushes the dirt from his knees.

"What in the hell was that?" Jake growls.

"Heat."

"Microwaves," Luke corrects but the smugness in his chest fades the longer Hawkins stares at him, seemingly unfazed.

Hawkins accepts it with soothing nod, tilts his head towards his fallen gun. "May I?"

"Uh huh."

Luke watches in curious fascination while he kicks dirt over the gun to cool it, pulls his sleeve over his fingers, and gingerly picks it up. Hawkins slides the pistol back into its holster, the insulation of the leather keeping his skin from burning.

"I heard about this in Afghanistan," Jake says from the corner of his mouth. He's still watching Luke, dark eyes intense under his bangs. His nostrils flare when Luke's outstretched arm begins to waver. "They called them _ifrit_; not really angels, not really demons, but people with powers no one could explain."

"They're definitely not angels," Hawkins agrees. "And they're not just in Afghanistan either. There is---there _was_\---a whole department in DC, dedicated to keeping American specials in check."

The blood that's flushed Luke's cheeks with unexpected pride runs cold. His back stiffens and he swings his arm from Jake to Hawkins, a red haze around his palm as the microwaves start to spill. "You were a Hunter?"

"No. But I had clearance." Hawkins pauses; Luke watches as he glances at Jake, at some unspoken understanding that passes between the two, and then, Hawkins tips his hand with all the self-assurance of man who knows he has a straight. "Campbell, right? Luke Campbell?"

"How---?" Luke mutters, never thinking to deny it. He stumbles backwards to find himself trapped flush against the car again.

This time, when Hawkins speaks, it isn't to him, but Jake, a sly cast to his mouth. "Luke had quite a reputation before the bombs, one of America's youngest Most Wanted."

And, now, Luke's laughing bitterly, because of all the things to survive the dissonance between the world that was and is, it figures those three days at Sylar's side would do it. "Yeah, well, now I'm in good company, and I don't think the ASA cares who the _old_ government was after."

"But whatever," Luke whines in the silence that's dragging on. He drops his hands, clasps them, still red hot, behind his back to ease the tension in the air. "I need a ride."

"We're not taking passengers," Hawkins snaps. "Sorry."

Luke shrugs one shoulder and holds Hawkins' stare, saying, "S'okay. I can buy all the gas in Oklahoma with the bounty that's on your heads…"

Hawkins' mouth purses in a hard, straight line. Luke shrugs again, ignores the gun Jake still has pointing at his chest and starts back towards the store. Jake blocks him with his body, his shoulder caught on Luke's, and at the impact, Luke reaches out instinctively. His hand lands on Jake's belly, abs flexing taut under his t-shirt and when Luke's steady on his feet again, he looks Jake in the eye and heats his palm, just enough to _sting_.

Jake blinks down at him, grits his teeth and stumbles back with a grunt. And _damn_ if it doesn't make Luke feel good to finally, _finally_ see him flinch.

He swipes the back of his hand over his top lip, dragging his feet through the dust as he goes. He's less than a yard or so away when Hawkins orders gruffly, "Get in the car."

***

The etiquette of calling shotgun clearly hasn't transcended the new world order because Luke's sitting sandwiched between Hawkins and Jake, bouncing off one and ricocheting off the other with every pothole that rattles their ancient truck.

"Sweet ride," he mutters dryly.

Without taking his eyes from the road, Hawkins drawls, "You're welcome to get out and walk."

Luke doesn't believe in second chances, coincidences or fate, but here he is sharing a car, once again, with the most powerful men around. More powerful, in a weird kind of way, than Sylar because although they might not have abilities, they've changed the world, and the government that blew them all to hell and back is running scared. That's pretty awesome, even if they do drive the crappiest car Luke's ever been in. And he vows it won't be like it was before; he won't get ditched again. So, he bites his tongue on a smart aleck reply.

Hawkins is older than the Wanted posters make him look. Jake a little younger, but the one thing they have down pat is the grim expressions they're sporting. Luke doesn't know why they're frowning, or, okay, he does (they think he's going to cramp to their style), but still, after blowing the whistle on all that X-Files shit about the bombs and the plots and conspiracies, he expects them to seem a little more… fulfilled? Instead they look hungry, harried and really determined---like his mom used to look, back in the day, when people still had errands and she had more to run than there were hours in the day---as if toppling the ASA is just another thing on their mile long to-do list.

Then, he notices the khaki jacket Jake's wearing: it looks like army surplus. Luke finally registers what Jake said about Afghanistan, and wonders idly if maybe the ASA is the one telling the truth, after all. Maybe they _are_ just traitors and crazy malcontents, people disillusioned with the America of before who want to ruin the new America, too. Hawkins had 'clearance', whatever _that_ means, and somehow, between them, they found a nuclear bomb…

"So, is it true?" he asks bluntly. "Did Jennings and Rall do it? Because they're saying---"

"It's true," Hawkins interrupts. "All of it."

"Even the part where you shot down a bunch planes and, like, fought a whole battalion of ASA troops with, I dunno, your bare hands? Did you really threaten to shoot the Texan ambassador if you didn't get asylum?"

Luke's breathless by the time he's done, reeled off the last of the urban legends that people swear are true and he's holding his index finger to Jake's left temple, miming a pistol to his head just like how he heard it went down in Cheyenne, when Hawkins finally cracks, guffaws behind him. Jake simply grins and shakes his head, lightly swats his hand away. "It wasn't _exactly_ like that."

And to Luke it doesn't matter what happened and what didn't, if they're right or the ASA is, because it's been a long time since he had this much fun. But Jake and Hawkins' grins don't last. It's said more people died in the winter America was off the grid than perished from the bombs, and though that winter's edging into spring, now, the air's still crisp enough for Luke to see his breath whenever he talks. The beaten up hunk of junk they're driving has no insulation and, even with the windows rolled up tight, there's a breeze hissing through the cab. The cold doesn't bother Luke---he's always run hot--- but Jake's teeth are chattering, loud.

Luke reaches for the radiator but Hawkins grabs his wrist. "We don't have enough gas."

"No problem, I gotcha." He heats his palms carefully and presses them to the leather seat on either side of his thighs, snickering to himself when Jake jumps at the unexpected warmth.

"Stop it," he says, "before you start a fire."

"I know what I'm doing," Luke whines, heats it a little more and this time, Jake shoves him on the shoulder, just short of rough.

"I mean it. You'll make us sterile with that, or something."

Luke sucks in an exasperated breath, but before he can do something stupid, like say, grab Jake by the nuts and warm 'em, Hawkins intervenes. "You're on your own, Jake. I already have two kids, and right now I don't mind trading your virility for someplace warm to sit."

Seemingly despite himself, Jake laughs; Luke takes advantage of his distraction and really nukes the seat until the backs of his thighs are sweating through his jeans and the windshield steams up. He lounges back and spreads his knees in the impromptu sauna he's created. From the recesses of his coat, he fishes out the OJ lifted from Wilson's store, piercing the juice box with its straw.

He takes one long slurp and nearly spits it out. He gags and chokes; Hawkins thumps his back hard enough to _hurt_. "Can orange juice go bad?"

"Yeah," Jake says mildly, takes the carton from him. "But this isn't orange, it's mango." He runs his thumb over the squiggly letters Luke can't read, backwards, from right to left. "Aid from Saudi Arabia. We used to drink this stuff all the time in Iraq."

When he tries to hand it back, Luke wrinkles his nose. "No thanks."

Jake tosses him a bottle of water, takes the mango juice for himself and Luke asks, "So, were you a soldier or what?"

"Or what." He doesn't elaborate.

A companionable silence stretches on; Hawkins fiddles with the radio but all they catch is static. When Luke stares out the window, they're passing mile markers for towns he went through months before. And though realisation is slow to dawn, he figures out they're heading _towards_ the ASA, not away. This isn't the first time Luke's been a fugitive; he's pretty sure the general idea is to _not_ get caught by the people who want them dead.

Belatedly he thinks to ask, "So where're we going?"

"Kansas," Jake says, without hesitation.

"You know the border's closed?"

"We know."

"I'm serious," Luke insists. "Nothing gets in or out without J &amp; R's say so."

"We know," Hawkins repeats more firmly.

"It's not like they're just gonna let us through."

Hawkins raises his eyebrows at the 'us', but nods his head all the same. "I figure that's probably right."

Luke huffs a breath and slumps back in defeat. "So, what's your plan?"

"Hell if I know." Hawkins gives him a challenging sidelong look. "Any more questions?"

He shakes his head and wonders how much dumb luck it takes to take down a government with planning skills like _that_. "Get on the I-35 as soon as you can. It'll take us through Kansas City."

And this time, it's Jake who turns to look him squarely in the eye. "Bad idea. It's still red flagged everywhere north of the Texan border. Even Ravenwood won't go there."

"Exactly!" But they don't seem to get the genius of Luke's plan, so he sighs and spells it out. "The raiders supply the black market in Texas with ASA guns and if they can get over the border without being hassled---"

"---then so can we," Jake finishes for him. Now, when he stares at Luke, Jake's really looking, like he hasn't bothered to before, gaze flicking up and down to size him up. He must like what he sees---or maybe what he's heard---because the grin he flashes seems genuinely impressed. And just when Luke thinks that they should high five or fist bump or something in celebration, Hawkins interjects, "We won't get far if they run us off the road."

Still holding Jake's stare, Luke calmly boasts, "I've done it before."

***

Luke's been lying since first learnt to talk; in that time before he could nuke the people who tried to hurt him, words were his only defence against cigarette burns and bruises. While lying hasn't kept scars from his skin all together---being beaten twice as bad when he got caught---it's a skill he's honed.

The access road to the I-35 is partially blocked off. A skull and crossbones chalked on the asphalt warns unsuspecting travellers of the no man's land ahead. They start down the long, straight, _deathly_ quiet highway, and Luke fidgets with nervous excitement, because, though it wasn't a lie, exactly, there'd been a definite elision of the truth: he _has_ crossed the Kansas-Oklahoma border before, and on this same stretch of road, in fact, but it was going the other way, on his own, on foot, when he could dodge and weave and hide, and never under the promise of a year's worth of crops and gas to the first man who brought the ASA his head.

From somewhere underneath the seat, Jake pulls out a shotgun, loads and cocks it, so that the satisfying slide of metal over metal echoes through the truck. He points it out the open window, the barrel notched against the side-view mirror. He squares his shoulders, squinting, and as he surveys the terrain, Luke surveys him. Jake's lean, but there's muscle there, too. Luke found that out when they tussled, and though he's looking rough around the edges---dark scruff on his jaw, hair a little grimy---it suits him. Maybe it makes Luke shallow, but that shotgun's _big_ and his mouth is dry, and there's another kind of nervous excitement pooling in his gut. Jake catches him staring and quirks an eyebrow, getting Luke's filthiest grin in return.

Luke turns to Hawkins and tugs at his sleeve. "Gimme a gun?"

"You shoot microwaves out your hands, son," he says dryly. "Leave the guns to those of us who need 'em."

Hawkins is too busy eyeing the burnt-out cars that line the road to notice the way Luke pouts. Jake asks, "What should we be expecting here?"

Luke racks his brain for anything he can remember about the crossing months ago. "They do their runs in SUVs; fill them up with guns and booze and morphine, anything they can sell. There's a driver and a guard in each, but they won't engage and risk the goods. The scouts are what you need to watch out for: they throw these grenades that aren't really grenades. There's no explosion, not really, they're just loud and really blinding."

"Flash bangs," Jake confirms. "Decoys to disorient you."

"Yeah. And they drive around in these little fast cars, like something out of Dukes of Hazzard. They tailgate and get up right beside you." Luke licks his lips, glances in Hawkins' direction. "Usually try to shoot the driver. They want you to think they'll ram you, to get you to swerve off the road and flip, but they won't. They need their cars to do their thing; take them out and you're home free to the border."

That last part is just supposition, but Luke thinks the theory's sound. He's never seen or heard of anyone who could outrun the bandits, but if anyone can do it, Luke's sure Jake and Hawkins can.

In the distance, he spots the twisted wreckage of a two car pileup, rusting at an odd angle, as if one truck t-boned the other and they skidded off the road, already fused. Something niggles at the back of his mind---a sense of deep foreboding---and then it comes back to him in a flood: hiding in the gorse that flanks the highway, watching the scouts lie in wait, concealed from oncoming traffic. Three months ago, it had been _awesome_ to see the cars swerve and flip and catch alight, but now he's on the other side, heart hammering in his chest.

"That's them," he hisses, excitement thrilling down his spine. "As soon we pass that wreck, they'll be on us."

"Okay." Hawkins nods, grips the steering wheel tighter. Jake cracks his neck, squinting through the shotgun's sight.

And then, everything is happening in a blur: there's a sudden roar of engines, three cars careening out behind them, and as Luke turns to watch, a brilliant flash of light explodes and blinds him. He reels back, fumbling at the dashboard for support and though he knows that Hawkins is shouting, everything sounds muted to his ears. He blinks, once then twice, eyes watering; the pickup lurches to the side as gunshots make the metal whine and creak. Beside him, he can the click and snap of Jake reloading. The world edges back into focus as Jake snipes a bandit drawn up alongside them. The car hurtles, driverless, off the road.

Bullets hit the driver's side door; Hawkins ducks from the flying debris but doesn't flinch. Luke holds up his hand and tries to aim through the narrow gap between Hawkins and the window. But he's jolted, tossed and thrown about by the shaking of the truck. Just as he's about to flare, Jake grabs him roughly by the shirt and yanks him down.

"Watch out!" He shoots across the car with military precision, the bullet less than an inch from grazing Hawkins' nose. Luke's crushed down against Jake's thigh, panting hard against his jeans and he can hear glass shatter as the shot finds its mark. He pushes up on his elbows and sees the bandits' car flip. He tries to sit to watch the flames, but Jake cups his neck and holds him down, their skin slick with sweat where it meets. Above Luke's head, a stray bullet ricochets off the roof, and bores into the dashboard.

"Holy _shit_," Luke gasps, laughing in exhilaration. There's just one car left behind them and it's falling back.

Suddenly, Jake yells, "Hawkins!"

"I see it," he spits. Luke whips around in time to see an armoured car barricade the road ahead. His gaze darts from Jake to Hawkins; the bandits didn't have tanks like that the last time he was passing through. They're rapidly running out of road but Hawkins isn't slowing, and if playing chicken leads to a head-on collision, Luke knows they'll be the ones to lose.

"Godammit!" Hawkins slams on the breaks, the acrid stench of burning rubber flooding the air as their tyres squeal and screech. The pickup skids, swerves in a circle so that they're facing pretty much the way came. The one remaining car is bearing down on them, guns at the ready. Hawkins pulls out his pistol, gets off a shot, and revs the engine, but in the rear-view mirror, Luke can see the arsenal that has them in their sights.

"Get out the car!" a balaclava-clad man demands. "Out the car now! Drop your weapons."

Out the window, Hawkins lets his gun clatter to the ground. Jake huffs a sigh, drops the shotgun, too, and, slowly, warily, they emerge from the pickup with their hands behind their heads. The raiders grab Luke first and roughly pat him down, so thoroughly it feels like a violation, shoving him away with a barked, "He's clean."

They enclose on Hawkins next, and though the holster at his hip is empty, Luke _knows_ he has a second gun, because no one with 'clearance' goes unprepared. Jake must know it too, because he calls out, "We're just trying to get to Kansas. We don't want any trouble."

But it's too little, too late or, maybe, too much to beg so soon, because all he gets is a rifle-butt in the ribs, and a growled, "Shut up!" in reply.

The guys patting Hawkins down are at his knees and Luke can see him start to tense. He knows that if they find that second gun, this all ends in summary execution. In a split second decision, Luke screws up his face, as if he's about to cry and flings himself at the guy he thinks is the leader.

"Please, mister," he whines. "Please, I'm not with them. I hitched a ride. I didn't wanna come this way but they wouldn't let me out. Please, I don't wanna die."

And he's grabbing at the raider's shirt, tugging, twisting, pulling him off his balance, shaking them both as best he can, and the guy's trying to shove him off but Luke won't let go. "Please, mister, I'll do anything. This isn't my fault. I just wanna go home. Please!"

"Get off me!" The guys on Hawkins round on Luke instead, throwing him to the ground, and kicking him for good measure. Luke curls into a ball and shields his head. When the leader orders, "That's enough!" they straighten up, forgetting to finish the job on Hawkins.

Luke stays down, keeps whimpering, and glances over at Jake; the tic in his right eye makes Luke think he's figured out what just went down.

"Grab anything we can use from the truck, salvage the gas and then burn it. Take their coats and their shoes and we'll drop them at McFadden Cove."

The shudder that runs through Luke is genuine; he's heard about McFadden Cove, a couple of hours drive away on the Kaw Lake shore. Before the bombs, families used to hike there. Now, the water is poisoned with radiation, and everything around is dead. It's said the raiders dump men there who don't earn the mercy of a bullet to the head.

Some eager lackey paws at Jake, ripping his jacket from his arms, while the others raid the pickup for anything they can---ammunition, food and water. Jake tries to wrench himself free when the raider calls, "Boss! Hey, boss! I got something you wanna see."

He grabs Jake by the chin while another bandit pins his arms behind his back. "Is he…?"

"Yeah." The leader says, considering, turns to Hawkins and studies him too. "Yeah, I think they are."

With chilling calm he orders, "Shoot them and cut off their heads. We'll sell them to the highest bidder."

There's the _click_ of a cocking gun, a rifle aimed, point-blank, at Jake; Luke springs. He hurtles at the bandit, tackles him to the ground and behind them, he can hear Jake grunt as he punches another man in the face. Luke leaps up and nukes the armoured car to a sparking, spitting explosion, and then nukes a guy to boiling who tries to shoot at Hawkins. Now, all guns are pointed at him as the raiders circle round them. Luke swings both arms in an arc, frying as goes. One guy feints towards him, then darts and aims at Jake. Luke moves on instinct, shoves Jake out the way, and nukes the guy bad enough that, as he pulls his trigger, his stomach bursts and splits.

Then, Luke's recoiling backwards, crumpling to the ground; the crack of the gunshot rings in his ears before he realises he's been hit. The pain is burning, searing, _ripping_ through his leg; Luke wants to puke. He can barely move, and the dirt beneath him suddenly crimson-slick with blood. Yet, still he's blasting all he's got, sweating, panting with the effort, the air tinged hazy red. There's a movement right behind him. Hands grab under his arms and it's only Jake's voice in his ear, yelling, "Come on!" that stops Luke from blindly nuking him too.

Jake hauls him up by his armpits; Luke tries to walk, but he can't. He's dragged into the pickup where Hawkins already has the engine going. Luke's sprawled messily across the bench seat, blood making the leather tacky, and they speed off the way they came while the remaining raiders give chase. Jake shrugs out of his jacket, half kneeling in the foot well and he _presses_ at Luke's leg until he's writhing, screaming, sobbing.

"We need to get them off our tail," Hawkins snaps. He pulls a gun from his ankle holster and shoves it into Jake's bloody hands.

Jake nods grimly, and yanks Luke's leg so that it's stretched over Hawkins' lap. "Keep pressure on the wound."

Luke grits his teeth and tries not to pull away, or kick, as Hawkins drives with one hand on the wheel and one on him. Jake's climbing through the window, sitting on the ledge to aim and fire at the car behind, and even with the nauseating pain, Luke can't get over how fucking badass he looks. And in the midst of a hail of bullets, he hears the _pop_ of a tyre blowing out. Jake slides back inside the cab. "They're radioing for backup."

[ _Continues here!_ ]()

 

Luke doesn't know how long they drive or where they go; all he knows is that his blood is _everywhere_, all over Hawkins and all over Jake. His body aches, and not just in his leg. He's shaking like he's freezing cold yet sweating like he's burning up; he hates that he's crying, but he can't help it. Worst of all, his ability is on the fritz, dangerous plumes of microwaves radiating from his palms in bursts he can't control.

"Stop!" Jake says.

Breathless, panting, Luke folds his arms around himself, tucks his hands against his sides, and stutters barely audibly, "I'm trying!"

But Jake's not talking to him, snarls when Hawkins snaps, "Can't stop the car now, Jake. It isn't safe."

"It isn't safe for him to lose more blood." His voice is rising now, his body tense. He has one hand on Luke's hip to hold him steady as they drive, and where his fingers curl unconsciously, they dig into Luke's skin.

"If we pull over now, they'll find us."

Jake shouts him down, "If you don't pull over now, he'll die."

Luke twists in panic. Jake's hand goes to his chest, pushing down to stop his thrashing. "Hawkins, _dammit_! I won't have another kid die because of me."

They stare each other down, Hawkins' jaw clenched tight, and then, with an angry shake of his head, he yanks the wheel to the side. They swerve off the road while Luke howls in pain. Hawkins pulls the handbrake suddenly, jolting them to a stop. "We need to make this quick."

Both the doors are opened and they stretch Luke out on the seat. Hawkins rips Luke's pants where the bullet hole has torn them. He grabs a bottle of water, nods at Jake. "Hold him down," he says, and before Luke knows what's happening, he's splashed it over the wound to clean it.

Luke curls up instinctively, and tries to roll away, but Jake's clutching him to his chest, stopping him from squirming. "_Hurts_," he whines. Hawkins' fingers burn like brands as he pokes and prods. Luke turns his head, tears smeared across Jake's t-shirt, face buried in Jake's shoulder. "Hurts so bad."

"I know," Jake soothes, holds him tighter. "It's gonna be okay. Just breathe."

"Jake," Hawkins interrupts, voice ominously calm. "It's not a through-and-through; the bullet's still inside him."

Luke doesn't know what that means; they're hissing back and forth, too softly for him to hear over the pounding in his head, but he catches scary snatches like, 'shock,' 'bleed out' and 'infection.' The cab lurches as Hawkins jumps out, to rummage in the back and Luke's stomach clenches in fear of whatever's coming next.

Then, Hawkins is pushing a pair of pliers into Luke's hand. Luke doesn't understand, but Jake growls, "No."

"I know what I'm doing," Hawkins says coolly.

"With needle nose pliers?" Jake presses.

"The principle is the same." Hawkins pauses; his voice softens. "We need to get that bullet out before gangrene sets in."

But Jake won't relent. "If you hit his femoral artery, he'll bleed out."

"If we don't make it back to Jericho…" Hawkins holds up his hand, and cuts off whatever Jake's about to say. "If we don't make it back to Jericho, he'll be dead in a couple of days either way."

Through chattering teeth, Luke grits, "Just do it."

Hawkins stares at Jake, waits until he nods, and then curls Luke's fingers around the mouth of the pliers. "You need to sterilise these for me, okay?"

"Yeah," he mumbles. "Okay."

It takes all of his strength to corral his ability; one feeble pulse is all he manages before he feels as if he'll faint. The pliers fall from his hand, tumble to the seat beside him, but it must be good enough because Hawkins coos, "That's it. That's good."

He dumps the last of the water over it, until there's sizzling in Luke's ears, steam rising up beside him and, as they wait for the metal to cool enough to use it, Jake lies Luke down flat, shushing him when he whimpers at the loss of his embrace. "This is gonna hurt."

Luke breathes in deep through his mouth, pants it out through his nose. "I know."

Jakes hands are at his own belt buckle, yanking it from around his waist. He folds the belt two, and holds it to Luke's mouth. "Bite down on this."

The leather makes Luke feel like gagging; he scrunches his eyes shut tight, and huffs out a breath as Jake pins him down. Then, his mind is blank of anything but a searing pain that feels like dying. His teeth sink into the belt, until he thinks he might bite through it and his throat grows raw and hoarse from screaming. Even when Hawkins mutters, "Got it," the pain's still there.

Both of Hawkins' hands are pressing on his thigh, and he's trying to cinch a bandage tight around Luke's twitching leg. "There's too much blood," he spits, rips the sodden cloth away.

Hawkins grabs Luke's hand, drags it down, and presses it to the wound, until his fingers are slippery slick with blood. Pointedly, Hawkins looks at Jake.

"Okay." Jake runs his hand through his hair, Luke's drying blood streaking at his temple. He pats Luke's face, rousing him as gently as he can. "Luke. Luke, you need to listen to me. You have to cauterise the wound."

"No…" he whines, groggy, confused. "Hurts… Can't…"

"Yes, you can. Come on, stay with me." He shakes Luke by the shoulders, cautious at first then harder, forcing him to stay awake when all he wants is to sink into the blackness that's pulling at his mind. He cups Luke's neck, and tilts his head, thumb brushing along his jaw. "Focus, Luke. I need you to do this."

"'kay," Luke mumbles. He inhales sharply, exhales a shuddering groan.

His fingers twitch against his leg, and he's trying, _trying_ until his head is swimming and sweat prickles behind his knee. "That's it," Hawkins encourages. "Keep going. Nearly there."

Luke whimpers, hiccups on a sob and fries until his flesh is charring, the burning scent of _cooked_ reeking through the cab. And then he can't, just can't: there's too much pain and too much blood and that place where his fire lives, deep, deep inside, is suddenly bitter cold and empty.

***

Luke comes to in stages. He's lying on a bed that's soft, but scratchy too. There are noises not too far away: soft and shallow snuffling; the sound of ponderous movement, but nothing he can pinpoint or latch onto to identify. And underneath it all, the pain's still there, sharp and bright and haunting, a twisted shadow Luke can't shake. He keeps his eyes shut tight and focuses on the sound of whispered voices.

"Jake, if I'm not back by daybreak---"

"You will be."

"But if I'm not…"

"Then, we'll see you in Jericho."

Luke blinks, his vision slowly becoming clearer; Hawkins grabs Jake by the shoulders and stares deep into his eyes. "You need to promise me. If something happens. If I don't get back. My family… The mission."

Solemnly, Jake intones, "They'll be taken care of."

Hawkins holds his gaze a moment longer, then turns quickly and strides away. Over his shoulder, he calls, "Oh, and Jake? If you need to leave him behind? Do it."

Luke shudders helplessly when he sees Jake nod.

He swallows down that yawning dread, gaping in his chest, and forces himself to focus: they're in a barn. He's on a haystack. That faint, foul smell so much like horseshit is actually cows. His teeth chatter as he shivers, and he shakes his head to clear it.

"Hi." Jake crouches at his side, one hand resting on his forehead, the other feeling out his pulse. "You're back. How's your leg?"

Luke's lips are dry, voice cracking as he speaks. "Ever been shot?"

"Not yet," Jake says, a faint smile tugging at his lips.

"Don't. It pretty much sucks."

The smile is now a grin.

He passes Luke a wooden bucket full of fresh, warm milk. "Here. You need to keep your strength up."

"Courtesy of our new friend, Bessie, over there," he adds, as Luke sits weakly, sinking deeper into the straw.

"I prefer my milk in cartons." The milk is thick and rich and oddly sweet, frothy at the surface. As he drinks, his hands begin to shake, and then, his body, too. Those unrelenting shivers are now full body tremors. The milk splashes wetly up his nose; Jake catches the bucket before it falls and spills.

"S-sorry," Luke groans, eyes scrunched shut against the pain that doubles as he writhes.

But Jake's behind him now, with his arms cinched tight around him, rubbing roughly at his chest and sides and belly. Against his back, Luke's shirt is damp, soaked through with sweat. "S'okay," Jake murmurs. "Cold?"

"Yeah. No. I dunno. I can't…" Luke stutters, and presses both hands gingerly down on his wildly twitching thigh. "It won't stop."

"It will," Jake soothes. He peels away the filthy bandage, shields Luke from seeing, and this time when he says, "You'll be fine," Luke knows he's lying by the smile that doesn't reach his eyes.

"Here, lie back. You just need rest." He lowers Luke back down, covering him in a blanket of hay. Chuckling softly, he wipes away Luke's milk moustache with the broad flat of his thumb.

Luke doesn't want to die like this, not here and not today. He grabs Jake's hand, grips it tight and squeezes, their fingers interlocking. Immediately, Jake tenses; Luke whimpers, tries to pull back and away, but Jake holds a finger to his lips, and keeps Luke still.

Then, Luke hears the noise that has Jake's head cocked at an angle: a creak as someone jostles the heavy barn door. If he strains, Luke can catch the hushed and whispered voices that tipped Jake off. His gun is in his free hand now, eyes bright and alert, and he scans the room with all the calm of a soldier used to being trapped in tight places. There's a side door, but it's across the barn, no cover between here and there, and the door is rattling louder now, the latch close to buckling. So, Jake pushes him down deep, kicks the hay until it covers him and hisses, low, "Stay put."

Blinking through the straw that criss-crosses his vision, Luke watches as Jake darts forward in a crouch, conceals himself beside Bessie's winter stall, with his gun drawn, cocked and ready. There's a heavy _thud_, the sound of someone's shoulder slamming to the door; the crossbar that holds it shut is slowly giving way. And as Luke hears the wood begin to splinter, his body shakes more violently than before. The only thing worse than being shot is the fear of being shot again.

Though he grits his teeth and tries the best he can, Luke's leg won't stay still. He can feel the cool air on his ankle, knows his leg is mostly exposed. His breath comes in a panicked staccato as desperately he wonders: could he nuke them if Jake needs his help? Would he burn to death just trying?

"J-Ja_ke_!"

Spinning around, Jake's eyes go wide in momentary panic. He closes the distance between them in three bounding steps, his piercing gaze never deviating from the door. He tosses more hay over Luke's leg, cursing when Luke's convulsions shake it free. For two harrowing seconds, Jake freezes. Then the door latch finally snaps and gives. With fluid grace, he rolls onto Luke and pins him down. The barn doors swing inward heavily; the animals snort and rear, and under the cover of the creaking, rusty hinges, Luke's wail is muffled by Jake's hand.

Jake's weight sends them plummeting into the haystack, sinking down until Luke can feel the wooden floor underneath his back and over them, the straw cascades in to fill the gap. The pain is nearly unbearable, burning hot, all up his spine; Luke bites down unthinkingly into Jake's open palm, and in his ear, he hears Jake grunt. His hands are trapped between them, flush against Jake's chest, and he has to fight against that innate sense of self-preservation that makes his fingers itch to _nuke_. Jake's stubble scratches at his cheek, and as Luke hears heavy footsteps coming, Jake murmurs, "Stay calm."

Above them, someone orders, "Search everywhere. They can't be far."

Desperately, Luke turns his face to the side, nose crushed up to Jake's neck, breathing in the scent of his sweat and not-quite-clean skin. The cattle low, shifting restlessly in their stalls and against his side, Luke can feel Jake's fingers flexing on his gun.

He holds his breath, eyes screwed shut, the ominous clomp of boots drawing nearer…

"This is private property!" a sudden voice booms loud; Jake and Luke flinch together and it takes all Luke's self control to not give in to the hysterical laughter bubbling in his throat.

"Sir," a man's clipped accent explains. "We're from Ravenwood. We had a tip off there were fugitives hiding in the area. We need to search your---"

"I don't care if Jesus himself sent you," the old man interrupts. "You're disturbing my livestock!"

"It won't take long."

"You're damn right it won't. Get off my land!"

"Sir—"

"Now!" And then there's a shotgun cocking, and the smooth swish-slide of pistols drawn from holsters in response. Jake breathes, "Whatever happens, stay down."

The standoff drags on, broken as abruptly as it began: "Sir, Charlie Company on the radio! They found the suspects' truck four miles west of here. Amount of blood in the cab… There's no way they made it this far. Captain Bodine wants us circling back to help them search the fields."

"All right, fall back!" The tramp of boots across the barn steadily recedes.

"Who's gonna fix my barn?!" is bellowed indignantly out after them.

Wearily, someone says, "Jennings and Rall will be by in the morning to compensate you for the damage."

They wait in stillness for a minute and then a minute more; slowly, Luke learns to breathe again, but still Jake doesn't move. His body's warm where he's stretched out over Luke, biceps taut as he holds himself ready to spring. At any other moment, nothing could be more _awesome_: the easy way Jake's thigh fits between Luke's legs; the flex and press as he breathes, of his abs against Luke's belly; those days old clothes, rumpled, soft and worn, thick with musk and sweat where Luke's nose is buried at his collar. His palms skate down Jake's sides, feeling the firm, lean muscle beneath the cotton of his tee, and instead of revelling in this wet dream come to life, Luke's brain short circuits at _painpainpain_.

Luke pushes weakly at Jake's hips, and he must decide it's safe enough for now, because he's rolling off of Luke, spitting straw from his mouth. They lie side by side, spread-eagled in the sunken depression of the haystack; to the sound of the cattle settling for the night, they laugh.

"That was close," Luke whispers.

"Close is fine," Jake murmurs, ruffles hay softly from Luke's hair. "Close means we get to walk away."

Though it takes all his strength to move, Luke fishes gingerly in his pocket, pulls out the gum that Old Man Wilson gave him, what seems like so long ago. With quivering hands he opens it, shakes out a stick that he snaps in two and shares with Jake. And as they chew, Luke can't shake the story of Wilson's dying son.

Jake spreads his jacket over Luke. "Get some sleep. I'll take the first watch."

Luke nods, softly sighing, turns his head so that for a fleeting moment, his open mouth is pressed to the coarse stubble of Jake's jaw. It's not a kiss; it's barely a touch, warm skin and salt and _need_.

In a tiny, tentative voice, Luke breathes, "Don't leave me here alone."

Even as he pulls away, Jake promises gruffly, "I won't."

***

The only way Luke knows he's slept is because he is, now, waking. Time has passed in fits and starts, long, strung out moments of never dulling pain, and Jake's jacket, still draped around him, is the one solid constant that Luke clings to.

Hawkins is back, with morphine and a plan.

They walk, walk _far_; Luke counts two thousand steps and then, two thousand more and, then, it's just one foot before the other, Jake's arm around his shoulders to catch him when he stumbles. Hawkins leads them to a dirt track, beside a stretch of fields gone to seed, and underneath the overgrowing foliage, a white truck is concealed.

Luke pushes off Jake's shoulder, limps unsteadily towards it; he fingers the spider web of splintered glass where a bullet hole mars the window, gawks at the driver's body crumpled in the seat. He casts his gaze at Hawkins, grinning and impressed: it takes balls to take on J &amp; R, big brass ones to do it single handed, when the whole company is calling for his head.

"So what's the plan?" Jake asks.

"Said it himself…" Hawkins tips his chin at Luke. "…nothing gets in or out of Kansas without J &amp; R's approval."

"Not to be a downer," Luke deadpans. "But I'm pretty sure the truck won't fool them, if you're the ones driving."

"Then, I guess we'll find out how good your fake ID is."

Maybe it's just the morphine making Luke feel reckless, but he answers Hawkins without a pause. "_Totally._"

"Are you crazy!?" Jake hisses, his hand on Hawkins' arm, drawing him off to the side. "The kid can barely walk and you expect him to pull this off?"

Hawkins shrugs him off and pats Luke companionably on the shoulder. "There's more morphine if he needs it. Unless, you have a better plan?"

Begrudgingly, Jake shakes his head.

"Good. Now, help me move this body."

The corpse is in full rigor, knees bent as if still driving. The sickening snap of bones resounds before they manoeuvre free of the cab. Luke sways precariously on one leg, breathing, "Cool," soft enough that Jake doesn't hear and frown.

Luke pops the back doors, too busy watching Jake and Hawkins stagger with the body slung between them to notice what's inside, but Jake's eyes go wide and instantly, he recoils. "You carjacked a _hearse_?"

Luke spins, and takes in the body bags, stacked high and neat on metal racks. Hawkins snaps, "Bandits did the carjacking, I just took what we needed."

They're arguing now, hissing low and angry, but Luke doesn't listen. Instead, he climbs awkwardly inside. He yanks a zipper open and peels aside the plastic. The guy inside isn't much older than Luke himself, his pale blue J &amp; R polo shirt still crisp and neatly pressed. His cheeks are sunken, skin sallow and it's more than just being dead, this kid was _sick_ before he died. Luke goes through the body bags, opening them one by one. He peers inside them all, and that same green-greyish tinge to their flesh pervades.

"What happened?" he asks abruptly, cutting the bickering short.

"Hudson River Virus." Hawkins hauls himself into the hearse, giving Jake no choice but to follow with the corpse's knees hooked around his arms. They slide the driver inside a bag and secure him in an empty slot.

Luke's heard about the virus, worse than SARS they say, more like Ebola, supposedly never found this far deep in ASA land. "We have the vaccine in Jericho," Hawkins hedges, has the decency to avert his eyes from Jake's accusing glare. "You'll be fine."

"S'cool." Luke shrugs, unconcerned. "People like me can't catch it."

"You sure about that?" Jake presses.

"Guess we'll see."

Then, with practised ease, he starts to strip the corpse; the polo's halfway up that pale, lifeless chest before Hawkins spits in disgust, "What the hell are you doing?"

Luke blinks, startled at his sudden angry scowl, and glances between himself, the body, and back. "I need to look the part," he says, in a tone that sounds like "duh!"

He doesn't wait to see how they react, just pulls the polo over the body's lolling head, stumbling back with the effort, remembering all the times he'd seen Sylar do just this with much more grace. It's heavy work to turn and twist the corpse, with one leg only to hold up both their weights. Soon Luke's sweating, panting hard, and even through the morphine, the throbbing in his thigh is getting too much to ignore. He wipes the back of his hand across his face, grimaces when it comes back slick and grimy, and then, Jake's there, a second pair of hands to help, despite his grim expression.

Discretely, Hawkins looks away as Luke leans against Jake's shoulder, strips and lets himself be re-dressed, beige slacks and uniform polo only half the disguise. With bottled water and a rag, Jake cleans him until his cheeks feel ruddy, skin rubbed raw of weeks of grit and dirt. Jake hangs Luke's fake ID on a lanyard around his neck.

"You don't have to do this," he insists.

"Yeah…" Luke shakes his head. "I do. But that's okay."

He zips them into body bags and locks them in the back. When he starts the engine, alone in the hearse's cab, he shivers without Jake's jacket wrapped around him.

***

At seven, Luke vacationed in Canada, him, his mom and his mom's new boyfriend. The welts Luke's dad left them with were already overlaid with fresh, blue bruises. The border crossing here seems just the same, long lines of cars, waved through interminably slow, and now it's the ASA troops who check IDs, as alien-feeling and foreign as the Mounties of ten years before. Luke waits with the engine running, one elbow resting on the door and as chilly as the breeze starts to get, he keeps the shattered window down, the tell-tale bullet hole unseen.

The Jennings and Rall logo skips him to the front of the line, but doesn't let him bypass inspection; as his fake ID number is logged, the border guards pass a mirror underneath the truck.

"What's your business in Kansas?"

"Just passing through," Luke says evenly, keeping the same bored tone, as if he does this every day. "Cadaver run back to Cheyenne HQ."

The guard nods absently, and flicks the papers on his clipboard back and forth. He's about to wave Luke through when a second guard salutes at his elbow.

"At ease, son," the commander mutters, quirking a grin a Luke. "This is border patrol not the marines."

"Sir, yes, sir!" Luke snorts a laugh at his expense, his chuckles growing hollow as the over eager private continues, "I ran the licence; this ve-hicle was scheduled to cross the border three days ago."

The commander shrugs. "This isn't Nazi Germany, solider. The trains don't always run on time."

"But sir," the kid insists, flushing now. "This transport is marked as sensitive, no diversions permitted."

"All right, all right," the commander rolls his eyes, turns back to Luke, almost apologetic. "Reason for the delay?"

Luke leans out through the window, hisses low enough for only the commander to hear. "Outbreak in Oklahoma City."

The solider straightens and stiffens, steps back and away, the bright eyed private at his heels. "Should I check the back?"

Luke holds the commander's gaze and flicks a flimsy paper facemask, from the dashboard, at him through the open window. "You might wanna wear this while you do."

Hoarsely, the commander orders, "Let him pass."

***

Kansas looks like Oklahoma, the same rural towns all blurring into one. Ten miles inside the state line, the morphine is wearing off.

"You did good, kid," Hawkins praises softly. Luke sighs and squirms against Jake's shoulder, smiles faintly through the pain.

***

Twilight turns to dusk; the truck slows to a crawl.

"What's wrong?" Luke mumbles thickly around a yawn.

"We should have run into someone by now," Hawkins says, distracted. "A month ago there were check points all the way to Rogue River."

Jake's fingers close more firmly around the gun that's resting in his lap and Luke sits up, shakes himself alert. Two miles further and they hit a roadblock; a dozen ragtag men with rifles pointed their way.

Then, someone's whooping, "Jake?!" and Jake yells, "Stanley!" back. He springs from the front seat into a rough and giddy hug.

"Since when are you doing Beck's job?"

"Since Major Beck quit the ASA." Stanley grins at Jake's disbelieving stare. "Welcome to 'open insurrection.'"

***

On main street, they get a heroes' welcome; word of their return spreads like wildfire through the town and Luke's lost in the chaos, left leaning on the hearse for balance as a kid cries, "Dad!" and a woman, "Robert!" and Hawkins is engulfed in the arms of his family. Around Jake, the crowd is gathered five people deep, more tumbling from the bar to clap his back and shake his hand. The easy camaraderie of the past two days pales to insignificance in the face of such show.

Luke's jostled around and pawned from person to person, feeling more forgotten, the further Jake drifts without looking back. And now, he can't see Jake at all. Amongst the celebration, all Luke has is a jacket pulled tight around him that's too long in the arms; it's left for a stranger to take control. "Someone get this kid a bandage for his leg."

The ride to the medical centre is short. Luke brags in answer to Deputy Bill's questions: yeah, he really saved Jake's life, took a bullet in the leg and yeah, getting shot hurt like hell but the impromptu surgery was worse. And when he cuts his gaze to Bill, sees him glancing back in awe and maybe just a little green around the gills, there's still that hollow, empty feeling in Luke's chest. He clams up after that, and lets Bill drive a little faster when he thinks that something's wrong. Luke studies the houses of Jericho as they pass, wondering how, with all that's happen, this town still feels so full of _homes_.

There's a woman waiting with a gurney at the door.

"Gunshot wound for you, Jessica," Bill says as he helps Luke hop up onto the bed.

"To the right leg; we heard. Jake radioed in from Town Hall." She smiles down at Luke and wheels him inside the building. She looks too young to be a doctor, but the white coat is reassuring, and despite himself, Luke finds it comforting to know Jake trusts her too.

"Kenchy!" she yells brusquely. "Exam room three."

Then, she's cutting the J &amp; R shirt off him, gloved hands cool against his skin. There's a beeping in the background from the wires she's pressing to his chest.

"Wait," he manages before she sticks a needle in his arm.

"Does it hurt?"

It does; he leg feels weirdly stiff and the ache he's been ignoring is only getting worse, throbbing all the way up to his teeth, but he shakes his head and shrugs out of Jake's jacket, shivering on the paper sheets without it.

"Don't get blood on it," he mumbles as Jessica takes it and lays it out the way, but she's yelling, "Kenchy!" out the door, again, and Luke doesn't think she hears.

Another doctor stumbles into the room. A blue mask covers his mouth but when he hurries over, cuts up the leg of Luke's pants with scissors held in a shaking hand, Luke can still smell the booze that's on his breath.

"Get the last of the morphine," he snaps.

"He can walk," Jessica argues back. "He doesn't need it."

"And when we find his leg's gone septic, because that's what happens when you butcher someone in the backseat of a car, we'll have to amputate."

"What?!" Luke yells. He tries to move but Kenchy pins him down with unexpected strength and straps him to the bed, ignores his shouts and orders with clinical detachment, "So, get me the last of the morphine, and you'd better bring more penicillin, too."

There's a panic rising in Luke's gut that makes him feel like he's going to puke. Beneath him, the bed is growing warmer with microwaves he can't contain.

"_Please_," he begs to Jessica when she squeezes his arm, whimpers for her to save him from this crazy, drunken man who wants to cut his leg off. But all she says is, "Yes, doctor," and leaves Luke to his fate.

As she scurries out the door, Kenchy calls, "Tell the nurses to draw all the blood they can, or there's no way in hell he'll make it."

And then, there's an oxygen mask snapped around Luke's mouth and he's hyperventilating into it, trying to twist away as Kenchy rips his pants far up his thigh. His hands are on are Luke's leg now, pressing at the wound and somewhere in between his screams, Luke's crying out Jake's name. The restraints that hold him down won't let him move his wrists, so he clenches his fists around the bed frame and heats it until it sparks, earning a temporary respite when Kenchy burns his arm and falters.

Jessica rushes back into the room, filling a syringe as she walks. She looks up in time to see Kenchy stumble backwards.

"Get it together, _doctor_," she hisses with barely concealed contempt. "We don't have time to wait for you to sober up."

"Dress the wound and start an IV," he barks back, still cradling his arm close to his chest.

Jessica frowns and starts towards them. "What about the---?"

But Kenchy cuts her off and snaps his latex gloves into the trash. "Cleanest cauterisation I've ever seen. Lord knows how they did it in the field. He needs fluids but he'll be fine."

He stalks out of the room, calling over his shoulder, "I'm going to deal with this burn."

"What burn?" she yells after him.

"Kenchy, how'd you burn---?" but he's gone.

And then, she's untying Luke, soothing him, "You're fine. Everything's fine," and Luke sags back against the bed, two days of exhaustion finally catching up.

Jessica slides a needle into the crook of his arm, and with the adrenaline still making his body numb, Luke barely feels it. "Word is," she says as she waits for the painkillers to take hold, "you're a bit of a hero."

"I guess," Luke slurs around a yawn. His body feels too heavy, and everything seems weirdly disconnected, the foggy haze of drugs coaxing him to sleep. He turns his cheek into the pillows, Jake's green jacket across the room slowing fading out of focus as his eyes fall shut.

***

The room Luke wakes in is different, but mostly the same, a similar wall of beeping screens standing vigil over his bed. He's in a paper gown, now, a fresh white bandage secure around his thigh, and in his groggy state, he flushes at the thought that someone stripped him. The ache in his leg is all but numbed and it only takes a minute, lying forgotten in the cold and empty room, before he's yanking the IV free. This isn't his home and these aren't his friends, and out there where a civil war is brewing, Luke's never minded that the only person looking out for him is him. But here in Jericho, it's as if time stood still and the bombs have never happened, and he's the same misfit kid who doesn't belong that he's been running from since New Jersey.

He swings his legs over the bed, favouring his good leg as he hobbles to the closet. There are fresh clothes folded on the shelf, jeans darned on the knee but clean, and Jake's jacket hanging up beside them. He struggles into some underwear, gets his pants pulled up to his hips before he has to rest, sweat gathering in the small of his back, panting with the effort.

"You shouldn't be up." Jake's voice is low and deep and _welcome_, and it takes him by surprise. Luke turns slowly to find him leaning in the doorway, a crooked smile on his face. His eyes flick over Luke's bare chest and down to where his hands still lie on his half-done fly, lingering for a moment before he blinks and looks away.

Despite himself, Luke sniggers softly, a grin teasing at his lips; he shrugs into a t-shirt at the same clumsy pace, clammy skin warming just a little, now he knows Jake is watching.

"How's your leg?"

"S'okay." He bites his lip and adds, "Doctor's kind of a mean drunk, though."

"Yeah. He can be…" Jake shakes his head and rubs his eyes. "He's still the best we have."

Luke pulls Jake's jacket from its hanger, holds the worn green canvas reverentially in his hands, but when he tries to give it back, Jake says, "Keep it. It's cold out."

"Besides your clothes…" he trails off.

"Are being worn by a dead guy?"

Jake cracks a smile, and Luke does too, and though this isn't Luke's home, with Jake beside him, he wonders if it could be.

"Here, I brought you something to celebrate."

Luke takes the cool glass bottle, warily eyeing the liquid inside.

"Try it."

He licks his lips and tips the bottle against his mouth; the soda is sweet and vaguely medicinal, with an aftertaste that makes him gag. Luke coughs, bubbles fizzing up his nose and, before he doubles over, Jake's arm is curled around him to hold him steady once again.

"Gross!" Luke coughs again. "What _is_ that?"

Jake takes the bottle from him and takes a swing himself, swallowing with a grimace and a laugh. "My mom's homemade root beer."

"It tastes like ass."

"Hey, be grateful it's not the bathtub gin. That stuff'll make you blind."

Then, though Luke has his balance back, Jake still holds him tight, and pressed so close against his chest, Jake's warm, sturdy and secure. Against his stubble-rough skin, Luke murmurs, "I heard I'm kind of a hero, now."

"That's the rumour someone's spreading." Softly, Jake's fingers smooth through his hair; a thumb dragged along his jaw tilts Luke's chin up to face him. "C'mon, there's a spare bed at my place."


End file.
